The Swan-Daughter (The Daughters of Hastings) Page 4

  ‘Did they find anything?’ Eleanor spoke, her head bowed as if in prayer. They had practised the technique for years.

  Gunnhild stepped into place beside her companion and said through lips that were almost closed. ‘No, but … oh Eleanor, something good has happened.’

  ‘What, do tell,’ Eleanor’s eye brows arched up into a perfect high curve. ‘And hurry, I have to attend Christina.’

  As they walked through the fading daylight Gunnhild whispered her fate.

  Eleanor stopped walking. ‘And those things! What will you do with them now?’

  She could almost feel Eleanor’s shudder. ‘If you mean my aunt’s dress, it will travel with me. I do not intend to return. I shall discover my new life now.’

  Eleanor looked straight at Gunnhild. ‘What foolishness!’ Then she reached out and clasped her hand. ‘But may the Queen of Heaven protect you.’

  ‘I shall never forget you, my Eleanor.’ She squeezed Eleanor’s hand. ‘The abbess has returned my gold chain,’ she added.

  Eleanor squeezed her hand back. ‘Good.’ Gunnhild saw sorrow in her grey eyes. ‘If you do not come back to us then I shall pray for you every day of my life,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘And I for you, Eleanor. Though, perhaps, we are not entirely lost to each other.’ She lifted the cross from her neck, placed it to her lips and kissed it. ‘My grandmother was patron of St Oswyth’s Priory near Exeter. My mother was patron of St Benets in Suffolk. I shall be patron of an abbey one day also.’ She tucked her cross safely back into her gown. They had reached the fork in the trackway.

  Eleanor gestured towards the nuns’ hall. ‘If God wills it, it will be so.’ She lifted Gunnhild’s hand to her lips. ‘I have to go now. Christina will be waiting for me. Remember, I shall have you in my prayers, always.’

  Her joy saddened by loss, Gunnhild watched for a moment as Eleanor’s thin grey-cloaked figure followed the pathway to Christina’s chamber. How could she bear this loss? Yet she must think of the future and pray that one day they would meet again. Choking back tears, she hurried in the opposite direction back to her cell to throw her scant belongings into the linen sack.

  As she lifted the silk dress from her coffer she felt a tear escape and trickle down her cheek. She wiped it away and tried instead to be practical. How could she bring Aunt Edith’s dress? There was only one possible way – she must wear it.

  4

  March 1076

  ‘You loved Count Alan Rufus and he loved you.’

  Archbishop Anselm, 1093, to Gunnhild, quoted from ‘King Harold’s Daughter’ by Richard Sharpe in

  Haskins Journal Vol. 19

  Father Antony, one of Wilton’s five priests, lifted the carthorse’s reins into his aged hands while Edward of Winchester climbed on to a brown gelding. This was no tall and powerful knight encased in armour like Alan of Richmond, Gunnhild noted, as he took up his position to ride in front of the wagon. The aging steward wore a simple brown tunic and a fine woollen mantle with a hood that lay across his shoulders. For protection, a dagger was tucked into his belt and a valuable jewel-encrusted scabbard that contained a knight’s sword hung from it. Did he not worry that it might be stolen from him? She felt for the seax Christina had given her, saying as she handed it over to Gunnhild, ‘The woods are full of dangers. Use the knife if your maidenhead is under threat. Remember, it belongs to God alone.’

  Gunnhild took up her place on the faded cushioned seat opposite Christina. As she eased on to the stained side-bench she spread her clothing with care, making sure that her mantle covered her new grey overgown and the silk dress that she wore beneath it. She had concealed the Godwin shoes and the gold-embroidered fillet amongst undergarments in the linen sack that lay by her feet.

  Followed by her servant who carried her sheepskin travelling bag, Christina climbed in and sat on the bench opposite. She wedged a box between her and the elderly servant. With a flick of Brother Antony’s whip, the wagon rolled forward and they were off. As they exited the abbey gate and rattled along the track towards the woods that took them in the direction of Romsey, Christina kept a bony hand on the reliquary as if it were likely to fly off at every jolt that rocked their litter. They travelled for miles in this way, without conversing, and with Christina’s hand hovering over a fragment of the true cross, her lips moving in silent prayer.

  Gunnhild tried to peep out of the covers to see what lay in the world beyond the abbey. Labourers had not yet come out into the fields and the land was still. Mist hung in the air, shrouding the country-side and hushing everything except the sighs of their breathing, the clippity-clop of the horse and the rolling of wagon wheels. It was so eerie that Gunnhild wondered whether ghosts would slip out of the hedgerows. But nothing sinister crossed their pathway and the wagon rattled on and on along lanes overhung with hedges of white hawthorn until, at length, they dropped down into deep woods from where they would take the old route-way towards Romsey Abbey.

  Christina’s hand fell away from the relic as the wagon’s steady rhythm lulled her into a doze. When they trundled into sunken lanes filled with new growth, Gunnhild listened to the sound of cuckoos, blackbirds and the woodland scuffles of small creatures in the verges. Eventually the servant’s eyes also closed.

  Gunnhild sat up, alert, excited and silent, imagining what new experiences she might discover in Winchester. Would Matilda of Mortain take her to court in London? Could she ask for new brushes and inks or would she be forced to embroider day after day in the bower hall just as she had had to lately at Wilton? Was she to be ordered about as she had been at Wilton or would those who had care of her in Winchester treat her as the princess she truly was? She tilted her head up; she would behave as a princess. No one would treat her otherwise now that she had escaped the confines of the abbey. She reached up and touched her grandmother’s cross where it lay about her neck for comfort. Yes, Grandmother, you had pride and it was no sin, she whispered to herself. Trees rustled in the light spring breeze and birds sang amongst branches that stretched tall in a woven canopy above the wagon. She watched the sun glinting through beech trees that opened in endless long marches before them.

  For a time they met no other travellers until around midday when the sun rode high above the trees, she heard voices edging closer towards their wagon. Wood pigeons rose up high into the trees rattling branches and squawking down. A pheasant screeched. There came a great swishing of foliage close by, followed by human shouts, horse neighs and clanking armour. She lifted the wagon’s curtain to peer out. As she did, horses clattered past them, shaking the litter’s frame. She felt a great shuddering sensation and reached out for the side of the litter, clutching at the curtain, nearly pulling it down. Christina’s eyes snapped opened. The hitherto silent servant shrieked, ‘St Edith, save us.’ Father Antony yelled, ‘Christ’s sainted bones!’ The precious relic box dropped onto the wagon’s floor with a great thump. Gunnhild’s linen bundle tumbled forward as the wagon dropped down on its side with a jolt.

  ‘Out,’ Father Antony’s voice reached through the curtains of the litter. ‘There is a Devil’s curse on this useless wagon! We need to fix a wheel and it can’t be done with your weight inside.’

  By now, men were shouting and horses were stamping around them. Gunnhild leaned forward and grabbed the opposite wall of the unbalanced wagon with both her hands. She peered out. The beech trees had slid to a tilt. They were collapsed against a bank of nettles. Christina roughly pushed her aside. ‘You stupid girl, get out. We have lost a wheel.’

  Christina and her servant were too distracted by the stinging nettles to notice the drop of silk as Gunnhild lifted her skirts to climb out. With the forest floor safely beneath her stout shoes, Gunnhild tugged at her dress trying to pull it over her silken gown. Freed from the wagon and the bank, she followed Christina around the litter to the back.

  Behind the tumbled litter, a band of soldiers wearing glittering mail were climbing off their horses. Father Antony was kneeling by a d
islodged wheel. Edward the Steward was down from his mount and was ruminating with a tall knight. As Christina advanced, the priest’s head jerked up from behind the wheel like a puppet’s at a fair. ‘I was only trying to allow the soldiers passage.’ He struggled to his feet clearly meaning to face up to Christina’s wrath.

  Turning from the steward, the knight spoke calmly to Christina. ‘The priest steered your wagon’s horse too far into the deep bank of the track. He was allowing us passage but the outer back wheel came away from the bed of the wagon.’

  ‘You should have given way to us, or come past us one by one, not in a crashing huddle,’ she snapped, glaring at the knight, her eyes widening with recognition. Gunnhild, too, at that moment saw who he was and found herself smiling at him.

  Edward of Winchester lifted his hands and said, ‘Lady Christina, peace, peace, please, please, kind lady.’ His voice rising each time he spoke the word. ‘No harm done. This is the king’s cousin, Count Alan of Richmond. He offers to help get us back on the road.’

  ‘I know very well who he is. No introduction is necessary.’

  ‘Ah, Christina of Wilton, greetings.’ Count Alan bowed low and smiled beguilingly at Christina. Gunnhild was sure Christina’s frost must melt and glanced happily at him. She could not believe her good fortune as Count Alan turned to her. In that moment all she could see was his even features and his eyes that had been amber in candlelight, glowing as brown as treacle, and his red beard glinting like a woodland fox’s bristly tail in the sunlight that fell through gaps in the canopy. This meeting surely promised her a future. She sent a silent prayer to her name-day saint, St Brigit. Let him ask at Winchester for me. Count Alan bowed to her. ‘And so, we meet again, My Lady Gunnhild, daughter of Harold. Edward tells me you are travelling to Romsey Abbey.’

  Christina spoke before Gunnhild could reply. ‘She is to join the household of Robert of Mortain. We are delivering a gift for the Abbey at Romsey. After that, Gunnhild must continue to Winchester, so if you can help us get this wagon back on the road, we can be on our way.’ She shook her cloak impatiently and looked about her with a sharp shudder. ‘By evening there will be wolves in these woods and heaven only knows what other dangers.’

  ‘Is that so, my lady? Then we must give you our protection. Nightfall in the king’s forest can indeed catch travellers unawares.’ Steadying his prancing stallion, Count Alan called over to two of his soldiers and spoke with the men. They immediately tethered the horses to a tree and began to work on the wagon’s wheel. Father Antony grunted his thanks, wiped his hands on his robe and sank down on to the verge to watch. When the wheel was securely in place Count Alan said to Christina, ‘Now, Lady Christina, accept us as an escort. We, too, are set for Romsey tonight.’

  The nun drew herself up in an imposing manner. Gunnhild could not help but admire Christina’s sense of dignity as she said, ‘Well, Count Alan, I shall accept, but I insist that you ride two wagon lengths behind us and Sir Edward must ride before us. Remember, I am a Bride of Christ, and she is …’ Christina paused and waved her hand towards Gunnhild, ‘make no mistake about it, destined to become Christ’s bride.’

  Count Alan inclined his head, ‘As you wish, but should we not ride before you, to proclaim your arrival, My Lady Christina?’

  Christina snorted. She surveyed the wagon which was now upright and with all its wheels firmly on the road again. ‘I would prefer you kept your distance, my lord. Behind is best.’ She gathered up her cloak and, straight-backed, helped by her silent servant, she clambered back into the litter.

  Gunnhild started. Count Alan was staring at her, well not exactly at her, but down at her feet. She followed his gaze. An inch of green silk hemmed with flowers and pearls had dropped below her mantle. She tugged her plain dress over it and gathering her cloak close, looked boldly at him. There was a little smile about his mouth. His beard twitched. He said in a whisper so quiet that only she caught his words. ‘Pearls for a virgin.’ With a flurry of her mantle, she turned and climbed back into the wagon after Christina’s servant.

  Christina arranged herself on her cushioned seat once again. She rescued the reliquary from the floor and placed it with care between her and her maid-servant. She said, ‘We shall reach Romsey in time for Vespers. Only after we see this,’ she pointed to the relic, ‘safe in the abbey church do we eat.’

  Gunnhild nodded obediently, though her stomach grumbled. She had eaten nothing since they had left Wilton hours before. As Christina and her servant once again dozed, Gunnhild peeped out through the curtain at the back of the wagon, watching Count Alan ride on his stallion, his large troop behind him and his elegant pennant, chequered gold and azure, carried by his squire before him, fluttering whenever a breeze snatched at it.

  As Christina had predicted they rattled into the abbey yard shortly before Vespers. The distance between Count Alan and his troop and their litter had gradually narrowed on the approach so that both parties arrived at Romsey simultaneously. Priests and nuns poured out from the main building to greet them. The abbess, a portly woman, stepped from the crowd of sisters and stood in the yard waiting for them to descend from their litter.

  One by one, they climbed out. Abbess Hilda at once clasped Christina’s hands in delight and fussed around like a clucking pigeon, as if Christina was not a drab princess from an old forgotten royal family but a queen. Christina could claim descent from King Alfred himself, and naturally the English clergy would bow and scrape to her. She was old royalty and even now she was connected to the Scottish royal family through her sister’s marriage to King Malcolm. Her brother, Edgar, the Atheling, was currently at peace with King William and often at court, a fact that Christina had liked to crow about when they had been stitching that dreadful tapestry for Bayeux.

  Christina wasted no time in proffering her gift and as they walked towards the abbey’s hall, she explained the purpose of her visit. Abbess Hilda took charge of the precious relic as soon as they were inside. Her white tapered fingers held the crystal reliquary with great care and reverence. She turned it round and round examining and exclaiming at the beautiful jewelled reliquary, inside which the fragment of the cross was enfolded in purple velvet cloth. How many such fragments were there in abbeys, minsters and shrines all over Europe? That reliquary must have cost my Aunt Edith a great fortune. Gunnhild, bored with the fuss over the crystal-encased gift, turned her attention from Christina to Count Alan who had followed them inside. His expressionless face gave nothing away. He watched, unsmiling and not speaking. Gunnhild realised with a jolt that he was not really looking at the reliquary at all but beyond it, surreptitiously watching her, glancing away when she noticed.

  The abbess handed the relic to her priest, turned to Count Alan and said, ‘We are busy here and have little enough room for guests. Pilgrims are arriving for our Easter feast, but Sir Edward and the priest can have space in our priest’s house and we can provide you and your men with shelter in our guest hall.’

  He thanked her and smiled at Gunnhild as, looking with humility at Christina, the abbess purred, ‘And you must, of course, have the only available chamber inside my own dwelling. There will be a pallet for your servant.’ For a moment a smile played on her mouth. ‘I can give Gunnhild a cot in the infirmary. The chamber is private with a view over our herb gardens and since there are nuns’ cells all around her she will feel safe. It belongs to our infirmary sister who is visiting the sick of Michelmersh and won’t return before tomorrow.’

  ‘I am sure the girl is grateful,’ Christina said.

  Gunnhild cast her eyes downwards. ‘I am grateful, Lady Abbess,’ she said humbly. She would not have to share a narrow bed with Christina. She raised her eyes again. The Count was stretching his hands towards the blaze in the central hearth and was watching her again with bemusement in his eyes. She glanced down again but from the edges of her sight noticed how easily he shifted his attention, thanked the Abbess and with a sweep of his mantle, bowed and departed.

&nb
sp; The abbey servants carried Gunnhild’s linen bag into the infirmary. She followed them and sank exhausted onto the cot. Minutes later, she heard the bells ringing for Vespers. Shaking off her aching tiredness, she hurried back into the yard. When she arrived in the abbey church, Christina was already kneeling beside Abbess Hilda near the altar.

  A choir stood as if to attention in the choir stalls and the abbey’s priest began intoning prayers over the crystal reliquary. The abbey church was packed with monastery guests, a collection of merchants, pilgrims most likely on their way to Southampton to set sail for Compostella and, finally, Gunnhild observed ahead of her, half way to the altar, Count Alan kneeling beside six of his companions, with bared heads bowed and their armour gleaming in the candlelight. Gunnhild moved up the nave past them, but could not resist glancing at his shining head as she passed. He looked up and pointed down. Her embroidered hem had once again crept below her plain overgown. She adjusted her mantle and boldly looked back. He ignored this and brought his hands together in prayer.

  After the Mass, as she followed Christina out of the nave, Count Alan reached out as she passed, touching her arm. ‘Wait,’ he said so low she could hardly hear his words. She paused and bent down to adjust her mantle. ‘Can you slip away from her?’ he said. ‘I wish to speak with you.’

  ‘After supper. I can excuse myself, maybe.’

  ‘Yes, do that. Go to the privies during the meal. They lie behind the hall.’

  It was a momentary exchange but Gunnhild’s heart lifted with excitement. They filed from the church into the refectory and all the time she looked ahead as if nothing had happened. Christina was talking to Abbess Hilda, and her servant was absent, probably preparing Christina’s chamber for the night. Gunnhild hurried forward past Christina, losing herself amongst the other nuns.